


bite the tablet, elixir (disintegrate, mouth's a mixer)

by schlattcoindealer



Series: Alcohol Makes You Boring [Wilbur-Centric Alt. FD!AU] [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Paracetamol Overdose, Rated M for "Mmmmmm; this is very depressing.", Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27938407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schlattcoindealer/pseuds/schlattcoindealer
Summary: "Wilbur sighed as he lay back on his bed, free hand running through his tangled hair defeatedly. The sheets were freshly washed – Phil must’ve taken care to do his laundry while he was at school. The soft aroma of lavender and something unmistakably familial only served to summon a rising sadness in the teen. Phil seemed to have so much hope in him to get better, but Wilbur didn’t know if he could fulfill his promises.He didn’t know when the hell he became so fond of this family, but it scared him to his core. Phil’s friendly quirks and Techno’s odd habits were so domestic, Wilbur almost wished he could stay with them. But – he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Wilbur knew how he kept hurting Phil, and he knew how he stressed Techno out. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for drink anymore, desperate to quell his racing mind, and that terrified him. Every day, Wilbur’s problems grew, and grew, and if he didn’t do something about it, he would tear this family apart."-Believing himself to be nothing but a burden, Wilbur tries to write himself out of the story. Fortunately, his father manages to save his life.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: Alcohol Makes You Boring [Wilbur-Centric Alt. FD!AU] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000707
Comments: 15
Kudos: 235





	bite the tablet, elixir (disintegrate, mouth's a mixer)

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline Note: This takes place three days after the first part, and is intended as a clarification to what resulted from the final line of it.
> 
> Follow the tags' warnings closely, friends - and I really, really mean it this time.
> 
> Heavy Trigger Warnings for:  
> \- Underage Drinking  
> \- Underage Alcoholism  
> \- Suicidal Thoughts/Intention  
> \- Failed Suicide Attempt  
> \- Hospitals
> 
> If you're sensitive to any of those things, SKIP THIS FIC. You can't avoid them here.  
> Thank you. Enjoy!
> 
> \-- Title from "Saline Solution" by Wilbur Soot.

Three days had passed since Wilbur’s late-night drunken encounter with Phil. _Three whole days._

Despite the guardian’s insistence, they had yet to hold a conversation about it. Wilbur wasn’t sure why he expected any different, really. Despite being a good father to Techno, Phil seemed wholly unprepared for the treasure trove of mental issues that Wilbur put on the table, even despite the copious amount of red pen that was undoubtedly scrawled on his permanent record.

He was trying – Wilbur would give him that. He did attempt to start the conversation on the very next day, but the crippling hangover had nearly knocked the teen out, and that had taken obvious precedence over having a friendly chat about addiction or whatever-the-fuck. Wilbur found he didn’t half mind the state of semi-unconsciousness. It was comfortable, despite the swaying nausea and rising headache, almost like a free taste tester for the release of death.

Unfortunately, the next day, Techno knocked some poor sap’s tooth out at school in a display of stress, and Phil had been torn between the immediate crises, thrown in at the deep end without a warning. Of course, he went to his oldest son’s side first – Wilbur didn’t blame him for that. Actually, it sort of made him happy to hear. Techno was at least trying to get better – he was Phil’s shining child, after all, the pinnacle of recovery. In comparison, Wilbur was like a dark stain of soot on his otherwise pristine family record.

(He hoped his self-detonation wouldn’t further blacken Phil’s name. The man didn’t deserve that.)

Wilbur sighed as he lay back on his bed, free hand running through his tangled hair defeatedly. The sheets were freshly washed – Phil must’ve taken care to do his laundry while he was at school. The soft aroma of lavender and something unmistakably familial only served to summon a rising sadness in the teen. Phil seemed to have so much hope in him to get better, but Wilbur didn’t know if he could fulfill his promises. 

He didn’t know when the hell he became so fond of this family, but it scared him to his core. Phil’s friendly quirks and Techno’s odd habits were so domestic, Wilbur almost wished he could stay with them. But – he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Wilbur knew how he kept hurting Phil, and he knew how he stressed Techno out. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for drink anymore, desperate to quell his racing mind, and that terrified him. Every day, Wilbur’s problems grew, and grew, and if he didn’t do something about it, he would tear this family apart.

What could he do about it, though? Phil would always refuse to throw him out. Phil was stubbornly hopeful, of course he kept refusing. And Techno – Wilbur would never know why, but Techno seemed to like Wilbur’s presence, claiming his singing voice was relaxing, and that he was a pleasant presence. Wilbur couldn’t understand that – he rarely spent time around his brother at all, doing his best to stay out of the way. 

They had this falsified Wilbur in their mind, this image of a slightly fractured boy who could be repaired with some tape and good-will. They thought he had the capability to be good. That was almost funny, Wilbur thought. Wasn’t it common knowledge that burdens are never good? 

Little did they know, the real Wilbur was already crumbled beyond relief, just waiting for someone to deal the final blow. 

(Wilbur already knew who would deal that final blow. He’d known it all along, really, but it’d taken a drunken epiphany for him to really realise it.)

\--

It was almost midnight when Wilbur finally put his plans into process. The night was cold as ever, the haunting shadows only serving to heighten the boy’s innate paranoia. Techno was out, thank God – he’d decided to sleep over one of his friends’ houses in order to avoid the newly despairing environment of their home. That was perfect, Wilbur thought. Techno didn’t deserve to be the one to find him the next day.

Phil was still in the house, regrettably, but that didn’t matter much. His guardian was in his own bedroom, probably asleep already. Wilbur wouldn’t bother him – the man deserved at least one good night’s sleep before happening upon the after-effects of Wilbur’s burdensome existence. 

He’d intended to do this while sober, but the teen eventually started drinking at about 10pm. He’d been stockpiling the supply for the past week, just in case of an emergency, and it was really coming in handy now. He was only really drinking to still his rising nerves – despite his earlier conviction, Wilbur could not shake the apprehension at what he was about to do. That was probably a natural fear response – what creature on earth wouldn’t fear their own death somewhat? The pills he intended to use sat idly on his bedside cabinet, powdery and white in their lurid orange medical bottle, and Wilbur could feel his heart hammer at the mere sight of them.

Those pills would be his ultimate healing elixir. Wilbur laughed dryly to himself at that thought. He was sure that whoever manufactured them would not have anticipated for them to be used to alleviate someone’s ailments in this way. 

For some reason, the alcohol he was drinking tasted bitter on the teen’s tongue, its usual softening kisses harshened and ruthless in his mouth. He could barely taste the red wine he had taken to draining idly, the rich tones lost in the haze of his already slipping mental state. This was the first time he’d actually dared to drink anything while still in the house, and frankly, it was quite awful. Wilbur had always dreamed of going out with a bang, of dying to some scary overdose of illegal drugs in the middle of a house party – in comparison, this was awfully dull.

(Wilbur didn’t deserve anything more memorable, he thought. It was better that he was going to fade out of his friends’ memories. He’d never been good to them, anyway.) 

Putting the bottle down on the side, Wilbur reached to finally grab the bottle of pills, holding them up to the light to analyse them. They rattled in the plastic softly as he shook it testily, white light of his lamp giving them an almost ethereal backlight. It would be midnight soon, Wilbur thought. Best to get it over with.

Lifting himself off of his bed, he stumbled a little under the sudden weight of his intoxication, breathing laboured as he struggled to regain a semblance of balance. Wilbur didn’t want to die in the bedroom – that would be bad manners. Some other kid would have to live there after he was gone, after all – he wasn’t going to make some poor orphan deal with whatever curse he was sure to leave behind.

Instead, he staggered to the bathroom, only vaguely aware of loud he was being as he clasped the pills tight to his chest. Fumbling with the door, Wilbur closed it behind him, leaning against the oak on the other side in order to let his mind catch up to his racing heart. The emptiness in his head was almost sickening now, the cold feeling buzzing at his fingertips a bitter reminder of his eternal hopelessness. Despite everything, the alcohol had failed to chase his chills away. Wilbur wondered if the Panadol would do a better job at warming him up.

Moving clumsily to the sink and its mirror, Wilbur came face to face with his own reflection for the first time in what must be weeks. As expected, he looked a wreck, limp brown hair half-obscuring his vision in its state of messiness. His skin was pale, and dark shadows wrapped around the underside of his eyes, betraying the severity of his chronic sleep deprivation. He looked pathetic. How had Phil ever seen any good in him?

Wilbur wanted desperately to forget. He wanted desperately to be at peace for once in his life, to burn away the coldness and the sadness with a final blaze of death. He couldn’t take the system anymore, or the constant shuddering fear of waiting to be reprimanded for something he’d never meant to do. He’d spent years searching for freedom in friendship, and attention, and alcohol – none of them had ever held the key he was looking for, though.

As much as Wilbur hated to admit it, he knew the critical truth he was hiding from had finally come down upon his stupid little head. Tonight, Wilbur Soot had to die.

Fumbling with the cap of the pills, Wilbur looked down on his future as he finally got the white lid loose. Should he leave a note? The teenager considered it briefly, wondering what his last words should even be, before banishing the thought. He’d spent so long procrastinating already, and besides, nobody’d ever care enough to read it. Wilbur would keep his demons locked safely in his head, where they belonged.

Wilbur felt the effects of alcohol hit him all at once, and he staggered. It was now or never. If he delayed any longer, he would pass out, and Phil would find him oh-so-pitifully _alive_.  
Tilting his head back, he downed the bottle in one snapping motion, and swallowed roughly. For a terrible few moments, it tasted awful, and Wilbur felt himself stumble backwards before losing his balance in a new, awful wave of nausea. His world tumbled and flipped to the side, and then—

Thunk. 

His head hit the floor, sending an awfully loud noise ringing through the otherwise empty nighttime air. The last things Wilbur registered before his world went dark was the sound of his name being called through the wall, and a lasting sense of eternal regret.

\--

Maybe Phil was a fucking moron for leaving Wilbur to his own devices for so long. Though he had isolation issues, Wilbur had seemed to be coping as well as he could expect. Of course, Phil should have realised that he was just covering for his emotions with excessive amounts of normalcy.

He’d known that Will had a habit of sneaking out at night, but despite his efforts in subtly dissuading Wilbur from leaving, he could never figure out how to make him stop completely. On top of that, Phil hadn’t known quite how bad his son’s state really was – hell, he’d only just learned of his awfully extensive drinking habits about three nights ago. So, yeah, maybe Phil was wrong to place so much blind faith in Wilbur’s stability. Maybe he should have been more proactive. Maybe he should have –

Oh, to hell with that line of thought. Thinking about what Phil should’ve done wouldn’t help the situation now. What was important was that Wilbur was out cold on the bathroom floor, cold and with a scarily slow pulse, and a dangerously empty pill bottle loosely held in one of his hands. The residual smell of wine hung in the air, and Phil’s heart sank as he realised what exactly was going on.  
He tried to shift Wilbur from his laying position, trying not to focus on how limp the teenager was in his grasp. Phil was no medic, but he couldn’t leave him laying there, not with what appeared to be a bleeding head. He wasn’t dead yet, and Phil was determined to save his boy’s life if it killed him. Picking him up bridal-style, the adult carefully lifted him off of the floor, wincing at the small pool of blood that he left behind on the tiling. That was a concern for later.

Carefully, Phil carried Wilbur to his own bedroom, setting him down on the bed. Reaching for his phone, he tapped 999 into the keypad with shaky fingers, raising the phone to his head.  
The response was immediate. “This is the emergency line, how may we help?” a tinny voice sounded over the line, and Phil felt his heart race as Wilbur seemed to flinch in his state of unconsciousness.

As he talked over the phone, he held his son’s limp hand tightly. He was going to save Wilbur from himself, no matter what. After all, it was in his duty as a father.

\--  
\--

Wilbur hated hospitals. He’d only ever been in them twice before – once, while watching his mother die, and then a few years later, after the incident in the Storm. He wasn’t supposed to wake up in one now, not after all he’d done to avoid ever waking up again. Why was he still alive? Why was fate never on his side? 

He tried to sit up, only to realise that his body was screaming with fatigue, his fingers feeling fuzzy and not-quite-there. Someone by his side jolted at the movement, and Wilbur struggled to focus his eyes on who it could be.

As his vision cleared, though, Wilbur felt his blood run cold with fear. Oh, God. It was Phil, and he looked heartbroken. Wilbur had done that to him in his attempt to seize freedom – he’d made this kind man break down. He closed his eyes, half-expecting the man to finally snap, and yell at him for being a burden. It would be well-deserved. Wilbur had done nothing but cause suffering to this man, and then he’d gone and tried to dodge the consequences of it. Phil had every right to be angry.

“Oh, Wilbur,” he heard Phil say. The teen felt his mind jolt in surprise when his voice was not angry, or hateful, but soft and caring. “Wilbur, I’m so sorry. I should have – I should have been more attentive. I should have realised sooner. I’m so, so, sorry.”

Why was he apologising? Shouldn’t he be furious? After all, Wilbur was the reason they were in a hospital at dawn - he'd failed at being a member of society, failed at being rehabilitated, and then he'd gone and failed at dying. Phil ought to be embarrassed to have him as a son.

“I-“ Wilbur tried, coughing when his voice came out raspy and weak. He felt something unsettling rising in his chest, bubbling in the corners of his eyes and making his breath shake uncontrollably. “It’s my fault,” he admitted, words loose and unstable. “I… I wanted to stop being a burden…”

Phil seemed to lean forward, reaching to place a hand on Wilbur’s arm tentatively. It was warm, so warm. Wilbur wanted to lean into the touch – but, did he deserve to?

“You were never a burden, Will,” Phil murmured, leaning in. “You never have been. I’ve never thought of you as a burden, not once – I felt honoured to look after you. Your quirks and your habits make our home better, by far.”  
Wilbur opened his mouth to protest, but Phil kept going, his voice trembling with unshed tears. “You sing quietly in the shower when you think I can’t hear. You make your sandwiches with the crust off because you don’t like the texture. You love watching documentaries, and I can hardly get you to move when one’s on. Wilbur, you're my son, and I love every part of you - even the bits you don't like yourself.” 

When Phil leaned in to hold his son closer, Wilbur instinctively clasped on weakly, leaning forward to press his face into his coat so he couldn’t see him give into his tears. His shoulders shook with the effort – everything hurt, and Wilbur just wanted it to stop hurting already, but he couldn’t imagine leaving Phil to pick up his pieces again.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice muffled in the fabric. “Pl… please don’t hate me. I’m sorry.” He gasped for pitiful scraps of air between his words. Phil simply held him closer, refusing to let go.

“It’s okay, Wilbur.” his father murmured. “We’re gonna get better together. I promise.”  
The two stayed that way for the next five minutes, and for the first time in six years, Wilbur didn’t want to leave his guardian’s side.

**Author's Note:**

> My search history after writing this is... probably alarming, to say the least.  
> Standard rules apply: if you see a typo, no you don't.  
> Follow me on Tumblr @general-light if you want!


End file.
